Snow nodded.
‘I am serious about wanting to be a good boy, but you can’t blame me for me being desirous of a little fun as well and to be honest I thought you might be up for it.’
‘What on earth made you think that?’ Snow had asked the question before he realised how dangerous it was.
‘Your manner. Your whole… you. One knows… or at least I thought I did. It’s a pity because I find you a rather lovely man and I’m into lovely men.’ He laughed lightly and despite himself Snow smiled.
‘I must admit I’ve never thought of myself in those terms.’
‘Well, now you know. You should feel rather chuffed with yourself when both brother and sister fancy you.’
‘I think it’s time to change the subject. How are you settling in to your new place?’
‘Well, it’s hardly the Ritz but it will do for the time being. Still, you’ll be able to see how I’ve tarted the place up a bit on Saturday. I’ve invited you and Mat for dinner.’
This was the first Snow had heard about it but he didn’t say so.
‘What’s the situation on the job front?’
‘I’ve got an interview on Friday with an insurance company - just as a lowly desk jockey but, as I keep saying, it’s a start.’
‘I’m pleased for you.’ And Snow surprised himself by actually meaning it.
At Roger’s persuasion, the two men stayed on for a another drink and Snow’s demeanour mellowed further. By the time they were draining their second pint, a casual observer might have assumed these were two old friends having a night out. Roger half rose from his chair lifting his empty glass. ‘One for the road, eh?’
Snow shook his head. ‘Better not. Wouldn’t be done for a Detective Inspector to be caught over the limit’.
Roger sat down again. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I guess that invisible uniform of yours takes the shape of a strait jacket at times.’
‘I suppose it does. It’s a useful reminder of how one should behave.’
Roger gave a mock salute. ‘Point taken.’
Both men smiled.
‘Well, if we gotta go, we gotta go, but could I ask you one last favour? Could you give me a lift home? That’s the one thing I really miss: my own set of wheels. I bloody hate public transport. It means mixing with the public, ugh.’
‘OK, but let’s be quick about it. I have a date with a spicy chicken, remember.’
Roger laughed. ‘Lucky old bird.’
On leaving the pub, the fresh air had a strange effect on Snow. Although he had only drunk two pints of beer, the sharp cold mixing with the alcohol began to make him feel a little woozy. This surprised him but he was not too concerned. He felt pleasantly relaxed and less tense than usual and was happy to walk alongside Roger in quiet contentment while his companion chatted away.
As they approached the car, Snow’s foot slipped on a patch of frosted pavement and Roger grabbed his arm to steady him.
‘Whoa, boy,’ he cried. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Fit to drive?’
‘Indeed. I’ve only have a couple of pints.’
‘On an empty stomach?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Pleased to hear it.’
The two men resumed their walk to the car, Roger still holding Snow’s arm.
Aware that he was not quite as clear-headed as he should be, Snow drove with extra care. Eventually, he pulled up outside the Chesil Bank flats, the illuminated windows of which spotted the blackness of the December night.
‘I don’t suppose I can tempt you in for a night cap, Inspector?’ said Roger before giggling. ‘But perhaps not. One more drink and you’d have to stay the night and that would never do, would it?’
Snow did not reply.
‘Well, thanks for the lift, old boy. I’ll see you and Mat on Saturday.’ Roger leaned over and planted a kiss on Snow’s cheek. Snow turned suddenly gazing at him, his face illuminated by the lights of the dashboard. With slow deliberation, he pulled Roger towards him.
When Snow got home later that night, there was an answer machine message from Matilda waiting for him. He sat in the unlighted sitting room and listened to it:
‘Hello Paul. I’m sorry not to be able to talk to you in person. There is so much to say. I must apologise for being so distant, so distracted recently due to this Roger business. I have been very neglectful of you, I know. Been a bit of a bitch, if the truth were told. I’m so sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me. Anyway, now he’s moved out, I hope we can get things back as they were. You know… well I hope you know that I’m very fond of you. Please give me as ring as soon as you’re able.’
Snow put his head in his hands and sighed heavily. What a particularly unpleasant can of worms he had just opened.
CHAPTER
TWENTY FOUR
Lucy still needed alcohol to get her through the day and particularly the night. While, in one sense, she now felt, how could she phrase it, able to accept what she had done, she still was in pain and fearful. Very fearful. Especially of the nightmares, those dark dreams in which she re-enacted ‘the terrible deed’. She would wake up trembling, her whole body moist with sweat. Then she would reach out for the vodka bottle.
It was late Saturday afternoon and, with the aid of alcohol, she had fallen asleep in front of the television only to be propelled into consciousness by the same horrific dream. Even awake, the dreadful squeals of the dying baby still rang in her ears.
‘God,’ she cried out. ‘I thought you’d make this better. You were supposed to make this fucking better.’
She reached out for the vodka bottle and knocked it the floor, the contents gurgling out on to the carpet.
‘No! No!’ she screamed as she attempted to snatch up the bottle, but it was too late. It was empty. She moaned. How would she cope without the booze? The answer was simple: she wouldn’t. She began to cry, her body heaving with sobs and she threw herself face down on the sofa, burrowing her face into a cushion while the television in the corner continued to burble.
Suddenly, a thought flashed into her mind. Her body froze, she stopped crying and gradually she pulled herself up into a sitting position. Her face was tense and determined. She had made a decision. With a dramatic gesture, she dragged her sleeve with some force across her damp face to sweep away the tears. With quick mechanical movements she went to the sideboard and checked her purse. It told her what she already knew. Well, that was not going to stop her.
The off licence was about three streets away, its brightly lit window shining like a garish beacon in the darkened street. There were several customers already in there perusing the shelves, probably, thought Lucy, getting ready to stock up for Christmas. She joined them, wandering around casually examining the stock. It was all an act of course for she had seen the display of spirits when she first entered; in particular the stack of vodka bottles near the door. Slowly, she gravitated to these and then picked one up and pretended to read the label. The assistant, a young girl about the same age as Lucy, took no notice of her. Then a burly fellow in a dark overcoat plonked three bottles of wine on the counter. ‘I’ll take these, love,’ he announced in a gruff, friendly manner. The assistant smiled politely and turned all her attention to him. Lucy acted quickly. She slipped the vodka inside her coat and walked quickly to the door. Within seconds she was out on the street running and grinning. She kept up a steady pace until she was a few hundred yards from home.
‘Clever girl,’ she told herself as she caught her breath. It struck her that after the success of this little venture perhaps she would never have to pay for a bottle of booze again.
So pleased was she by the success of her escapade, that she failed to take much notice that her flat door was slightly ajar when she returned. She just assumed that, having left in such a determined hurry, she had forgotten to close it and lock it. ‘That’s what drink does to you, girl,’ she grinned, moving into the warmth of the sitting room, holding up the vo
dka as though it was a trophy. It was then that she noticed the shadowy figure at the other side of the room.
She gave a gasp of surprise, nearly dropping the bottle.
‘Hello, Lucy,’ said the figure, moving forward into the light.
Initially Lucy was tense with fearful apprehension, but on hearing the voice and then seeing the face, she began to relax.
‘Hello,’ she said with a smile. ‘What are you doing here?’ But then as she spoke, the fear returned. It suddenly struck her that something wasn’t right here. How had this person got into her flat and why were they waiting in the shadows for her return. This was creepy. No, it was beyond creepy. It was frightening. Something prompted her to repeat the question: ‘What are you doing here?
This time there was no smile.
‘I’ve come to give you something,’ came the reply and the figure stepped forward, coming close to her. She only caught a brief flash of the knife before it entered her body and the final pain began.
In another part of the town, Paul Snow and Matilda Shawcross were seated around a tiny dining table in Roger’s flat, while he carried out the final touches to the starter in the kitchen area only a few feet away. For different reasons Snow and Matilda felt awkward about this occasion. She was only there out of a sense of duty and to some extent guilt at the way she had treated her brother. Snow also felt guilt and was fiercely aware of the dark and crazy path he was now treading. He was here with his girlfriend, a woman of whom he was very fond, in the same flat as her brother, the man he had slept with only a few nights earlier. The scenario had all the ingredients of some bizarre Grand Guignol farce – a farce which, he was only too aware, could turn into a tragedy at any minute. As an intelligent and sensitive man he loathed himself and was appalled that he had allowed himself to get into this position.
After receiving the answerphone message from Matilda, Snow had called her at work the next day and they had arranged to meet for a drink the following evening. Paul had intended to end the affair that night. He felt soiled and treacherous after the incident with Roger and he believed that the only decent thing was to separate from Matilda. It was folly to continue and so unfair on the girl. He had to admit now that he could not give her what she wanted and needed. His stirred up feelings for Roger had proved that once and for all. He had tried to live a lie and fallen at the first fence. But when they met Matilda was so loving and so happy to be back in his company that he could not face hurting her. Not just then. It would be too cruel – or that’s what he tried to persuade himself. He knew he was being a coward yet again and only delaying the upheaval but he needed time.
‘Simple but delicious, rather like me,’ announced Roger, plonking two plates with a mixed salad starter down on the table in front of Paul and Matilda. They smiled at each other and then at Roger. God, thought Snow, this was like a bizarre Noel Cowerd comedy. And what made it worse was that Roger, oleaginous, smiling Roger, seemed to be enjoying it. My God, Paul thought, I could smash him in the face… or hug him to my breast and kiss him.
The salad stuck in Snow’s throat.
‘Well, that was quite pleasant, I suppose. But I hope that it was a one off. Roger needs to get on with his own life now and leave us in peace. What d’you think?’
Snow was driving Matilda home, hoping that she would not invite him in for bed and breakfast, when she made this observation.
‘I agree,’ he replied in the absence of anything else he could say.
‘What Roger really needs is a boyfriend. Someone who can take him in hand while at the same time looking after him.’
Snow’s hands tightened on the steering wheel but he said nothing.
‘You OK?’ she said.
‘Tired. It’s been a long hard week.’
‘Not getting anywhere with these terrible murders?’
The mention of the murders reminded Snow of the other reason he felt stressed and mentally exhausted. For this uncomfortable evening where his personal life had turned into a nightmarish deceitful charade, the situation at work had slipped to the back of his mind. With Matilda’s comment, it forced its way forward once more.
‘I’m afraid there’s been no progress at all.’
Matilda stroked his arm. ‘Poor darling’.
Snow grimaced. That was the last thing he was. Duplicitous bastard queer would be nearer the mark.
Matilda had been very understanding when he dropped her off at home and he declined her invitation to come in for a coffee. He offered up the weak excuse of wanting to get a good night’s sleep and she accepted it with grace.
On reaching home, Snow sat for some time in his sitting room in the dark feeling wretched. He had no idea what he was going to do about the Roger/Matilda situation. It seemed that whatever he did people were going to get hurt and he could find himself in the mire. He thought back over the evening. How Roger had seemed completely at ease, even amused by the situation. Quite clearly, the deceit was adding spice to his life. When Matilda had gone to the loo, he had leaned over and kissed Paul on the cheek and giggled and winked.
Like an arthritic old man, Snow dragged himself upstairs, undressed and got into bed. For the moment, sleep was the only answer to his problems. Sleep: the great escape.
Any plan to have a long lie in on the Sunday morning was scuppered by the harsh bellow of Snow’s bedside telephone. It dragged him from deep slumber and continued its piercing wail as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled himself up into a sitting position. He gazed at the offending instrument. It certainly wasn’t going to refrain from bleating until he answered it. The caller was obviously most insistent.
It was Bob Fellows.
His message short and sweet: straight to the point. ‘There’s been another murder. Looks like the same MO.’
Snow groaned. That was all he needed. Could things get any worse?
‘Give me the address and I’ll be there within the hour.’
Bob Fellows was having a quick cigarette outside the ancient block that housed the tiny flats where Lucy Anderson had lived when Snow arrived.
‘Fill me in with the details before we go up,’ he said rather more brusquely than he intended.
‘Young girl, in her twenties, Lucy Anderson. Cut badly, in the same way as the others. It was the neighbour upstairs who found her. A Mrs Conroy, a widow. Claims to be sixty-five. And some, I’d say. She was taking her dog out for its early morning constitutional and she saw the girl’s door open. She went inside and found her on the floor on the hearth rug.’
‘What do we know of the girl?’
‘Not much at the moment. She’d not been here long. Strange thing is, Mrs Conroy thought there was a baby. Said she’s heard a baby crying but there’s no sign of one. It was probably some loud pop music blaring out. You know what these old folk are like.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not really had chance to look at her personal stuff yet for addresses, contacts etc. She’ll have parents somewhere…’
Snow gave a heavy sigh and nodded towards the door. ‘Let’s go up’.
The tiny flat, stuffy and airless, seemed crowded with SOCOs. Snow had to squeeze past them to catch sight of the body. The girl was lying on her back, her knotted fists resting over her wounded midriff, which was caked in blood. Strangely, her face bore a serene expression, the lips almost curved into a smile and the glazed eyes gave no sense of panic or pain.
‘McKinnon’s been and gone. He was here in quicksticks. Caught him on the way home from a party.’ Fellows murmured in Snow’s ear. ‘He said there appeared to be nothing new here. Just like the other ones, he said.’
The words seemed muffled and distant as though someone had placed cotton wool in Snow’s ears. Suddenly his throat felt dry and his vision blurred. The girl’s body began to shimmer before him. He had the strange sensation of being unable to move as though all his energy had been sucked out of him.
‘You all right, sir?’ Dull words in his ears. They echoed faintly as th
ough someone had turned down the volume on his world. He moved his head slowly to face his sergeant whose features appeared to shift in and out of focus, his mouth opening and closing as muffled words escaped. Snow tried to speak, to articulate his thoughts, his great desire to leave this airless room, but the words wouldn’t come. And then his legs began to buckle under him. They seemed to lose all rigidity and he found himself falling forward.
Suddenly, he felt a tight grip on his arm and his limp body being dragged towards the door. The curious faces of the other officers in the room peered at him as though seen through a misty distorting mirror. There was a dreamlike whirl of sensations and blurred images, his body jerking uncomfortably as he was propelled along. The next thing he knew, he was sitting on a wall outside, breathing in the cool morning air. Gradually, the world came back into focus.
‘You OK, sir?’ Bob Fellows peered at his boss with a concerned frown.
Snow found his voice again. ‘What… what happened?’
‘It looked like you had a bit of a funny turn. I thought you were about to faint. It was stuffy in there.’
It took Snow a while before he replied. ‘Yes. Airless.’ He shook his head in consternation. ‘I don’t understand…’
‘I reckon a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich’ll make you feel fine. I bet you’ve had no breakfast. That could explain a lot. You can’t be looking at bloody corpses on an empty stomach. We can come back and have and look round later, when they’ve removed the body.’
Snow, his mind still in a mist and unsure of anything at the moment, nodded in agreement.
‘Right, a cuppa and a sarnie it is. I know just the place.’
As Bob drove to the greasy spoon café for their tea and bacon sandwiches, Snow tried to work out what had happened to him in that room. As his thought processes gradually sharpened and returned to normal, the answer to the conundrum seemed clear and simple, staring him brutally in the face. Yes, the room was stuffy and crowded and yes he had not eaten breakfast but the main cause of his fainting fit was stress. Seeing the dead girl had triggered something in his brain. The pressures in his life, held at bay by his normal stoical resolve, had broken through the barrier and swamped him. Here he was facing yet another murder victim and he had no idea how he was going to catch the perpetrator. He was lost, in a fog, all at sea, up the creek without a fucking paddle, without a clue. He was a useless copper! He could feel the hot breath of Clayborough breathing down his neck. And while this was going on, his personal life was spiralling out of control. He was involved, sexually, with his girlfriend’s brother and even an idiot could tell him that whatever happened in this unholy triangle a great deal of shit would hit the fan at some point and there would be damage. And he would be to blame. Weak, stupid Snow. No wonder his brain had taken an avoidance procedure, prompting him to faint, a temporary but feeble escape route. With a tight grin, Snow resolved that this should not happen again.
Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller Page 15
